


A man's desire for domesticity

by BehindBrokenWindows



Category: Black Sails
Genre: A tiny bit of unintentional angst, Bathing/Washing, Chickens were hurt, Domesticity, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hair Braiding, M/M, Swordfighting, Those two are unrelated (I think)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-19 10:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14235033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BehindBrokenWindows/pseuds/BehindBrokenWindows
Summary: Charles Vane claims he has no instinct for domesticity. James Flint argues it is because he's never known it. There's only one way to find out.***Let us pretend that Vane and Flint had a week in Miranda's house waiting to rescue Rackham because they had nothing better to do. Yes, that's my flimsy excuse for writing this.Anne isn't here, which I'm sad about because she is <3, but this is just me indulging myself with Flane - her time will come, but some other time.





	1. Like pirates like people (like cats)

**Author's Note:**

> This is not supposed to be some great emotional journey, it's not going to be great art. This is just seven chapters of something looking like happiness, nice and easy.  
> I hope you enjoy!

Vane had been touching… fumbling like a drunk man in a brothel, first the harpsichord, a treasured book, porcelain bought although it was a luxury they should not have afforded themselves – him and Miranda. And with everything he touched his dirty fingers stained a life that once was pure, that once was – good, if only on the surface. Memories that were more real now than anything that had happened _before_. Before Nassau, before he was reborn. Vane didn’t know that every time he touched something he cut Flint deeper than he ever could with his knife or his sword.

“Please, don’t touch that,” Flint had said at last, staring into the fire while pretending that it needed his attention. It was burning fine by itself now, but he couldn’t look, couldn’t _look_ at anything else in this house. Vane stood, and kept touching, so carelessly.

“All these things, porcelain, books – all so goddamn fragile. The energy it must take to maintain it all – and for what? I can understand a woman’s desire for domesticity, but a man’s – that I can’t understand.”

“I can’t understand how you cannot understand. You have no instinct towards earning for yourself a life more comfortable?”

“I don’t. And had I that instinct I would resist it with every inch of will I could muster, for that is the single most dangerous weapon they possess. The one they tempt; give us your submission and we will give you the comfort you need. No, I can think of no measure of comfort worth that price.”

“That’s because,” Flint said, and he couldn’t really believe that he was saying this, trying to convince Charles Vane of all people, of the merits of domesticity, “you’ve never had it in your life. We have a week here, let me show you. One week, we’ll pretend to live a regular life.” Vane scoffed, making Flint smile for the first time since coming here. “What? Afraid you might like it too much?”

“Fuck you,” Vane growled, and left the house.

Charles Vane had always had that aura about him. He could enter any place, no matter how crowded, and the air itself would change, twist and turn and people would _feel_ his presence like a tingling sensation of danger running up their spine even without knowing why, without quite understanding the fear, without knowing there was anything to fear at all. People would hush when they saw him, they would change their position awkwardly, afraid to get his attention, afraid to be in his way, hoping he might notice them, be impressed by them.

James Flint had always been proud that he never did that when his rival captain entered Guthrie’s, or any other place they tended to cross paths. But he felt some of those feelings now, _here_ of all places. But Vane had come back, had given an inch, so Flint was allowed to give a millimetre. Anyway, he couldn’t stop that tingle of fear-like electricity from making him shiver imperceptibly.

“Fine,” Vane growled in that way he always did, husky, deep, utterly manly while agreeing to spend a week with Flint in pretended domesticity. Like his wife. Or his husband. Or – something. Whatever. “How do we do this?” Flint rolled his eyes, already regretting this ludicrous idea, completely unable to understand where it came from. But here they are, and Flint would be giving much more than a millimetre if he took back his words now.

“Well,” he said, “you could start by not breaking anything. And not thinking about killing me.”

“Only if you promise to return the favour.” There was a glint in Vane’s eyes, smile making him look feline, like a rugged tomcat picked up on the street against its will, readying its dirty claws. He’d always thought of Vane as _feline_ , for whatever reason. He was just – sleek, smooth, always landing on his feet no matter how far he fell. And he knew how to use his claws.

“No swords.” Vane balked at that. “Do you want to fight me on that?” Vane bared his fangs. “ _No swords_. Normal people don’t do that.” Flint approached him for the first time, put his hand forth as he set his eyes deep in Vane’s. Reluctantly, Vane unbuckled his sword belt very, very slowly, and dropped it spitefully to the floor. Without looking at Flint he walked to the fireplace and pretended like the flames needed his attention. Meanwhile Flint hid the blades and the pistols under a loose floorboard under the bed in Miranda’s chamber. He pointedly did not think about her and returned to his new puritan. Vane. Vane the puritan. Flint grinned.

They spent the day – Vane nearly killed himself thinking the thought – picking things form the earth. Foodthings, or so Flint had said, although he didn’t actually know what he was doing either.

“I said not to break anything!” Flint growled when Vane broke his fifth carrot.

“Then show me how to do this properly!” Flint – couldn’t.

“Just – treat it gently, like…. Liked you’d treat –” Flint, at the top of his head, couldn’t think of a single thing Vane would treat gently. Probably not even his own dick. Stupid fucker. “Just be careful!”

When they had extracted, ruined, and trampled Miranda’s vegetables for quite a while, Flint said they probably had enough, although he had really no idea, wasn’t even sure these things were edible at the moment, not even sure they hadn’t just pulled weeds from the ground. They brought the things inside anyway and stored them in some dark cupboards in the kitchen. Then they went out to hunt, with their pistols. Like normal people.

They ended up stealing three chickens and two hares. Like pirates.

Fuck it.

“How the hell are we going to hide the stupid chickens?” Vane growled, looking like he wanted to pounce on them and play with them before biting their head off. Like a cat.

“There’s a cellar, we can put them in there.” So they stored three live chickens in the dark cellar. It had been near impossible to get the stupid things into the bag in the first place and they made _so much noise_ , like they didn’t want to be stolen at all. Flint was… more than reluctant to let loose three scared and soon-to-be-headless chickens in his cellar, but there really was no other option.

Flint set Vane to clean up the house while they still had daylight, as he himself washed some vegetables, skinned a hare – prepared dinner. For two. When was the last time he’d done that? He couldn’t remember. At least, he thought, he was a better cook than Silver.

With more grumbling that strictly necessary, Vane opened the shutters to let the daylight in. He swiped the floors of dirt – Flint balked at the sight of how much shit was on his floor - then he started tidying up. At least once a minute Flint had to tell the stray where to put the item in his hand, and Vane purposefully put books in the bookcase with the spine facing in. Flint was going to kill him, and he wasn’t even going to let him have his dinner first. He was a fucking pirate, after all.

“Hey!” Vane growled. Flint pressed the frustratingly dull kitchen knife harder to his neck. Not a single drop of blood. Well that was disappointing.

“If we do this, we do this _properly_. Put the books in with the spine out.” Flint let him go, pushed him away.

“I didn’t know wives tended to put their husbands to the knife,” Vane growled. Flint – thinking of Miranda from long, so long ago, pointing Flint’s sword at her husband with a playful smile.

“That only shows how little you know of wives.” Grumbling even more, Vane did things more properly after that, and Flint was – actually impressed with the result. The house looked terribly… liveable now. For better or for worse. He had to take a moment, steadying himself against memories brought to life, too real, too vivid – Miranda there in her humble sand coloured dress, illuminated by the Savannah sun, looking bright – golden. Miranda, who deserved so much more. Miranda who’d kept his house – her house – clean, liveable. Almost making him believe it could be enough, those few times she looked at him and smiled, truly smiled. And yet he knew even those smiles were just the shadows of what had adorned her face in London, with -. With the man they knew.

“What are you waiting for, I’m starving!” James returned to the kitchen to bring back a stray bottle of rum. He would need it.

They ate dinner as the sun painted the wall behind Vane red and made the world one of shadows and darkness, a place where evil things lurked in the dark. Flint didn’t have anything to say. Vane struggled too much with his knife and fork to have mind for anything else. Flint decided to study the way Vane’s brows creased – too absorbed in his mission to notice Flint looking at him, even. He was, Flint grudgingly admitted, _interesting_ to look at. He’d always thought Vane looked mean, like a tomcat – feline. Now he looked like a child, and it was… adorable.

Flint retired to bed directly after dinner, after sneaking three long gulps of rum, wincing all the way. If he thought that was a good idea, he’d been wrong. To be in her bed, now, naked as he’d been so many times before, broken – the same, but different – oh, so different – he could barely keep it together.

Then Vane entered, to Flint’s utter surprise. He’d been sure the man would take the other bed.

“Domesticity. Man and wife, right?”

“I suppose.” Vane climbed into the bed behind him, wrapped his naked body almost protectively around Flint. Except the arm around him was holding too tightly, whispering a threat. Meanwhile Vane’s soft cock dragged over Flint’s arse and settled comfortably in the convenient crease it found there.

“You said it,” Vane growled, sounding equally uncomfortable and smug, however that worked. Flint couldn’t focus on his pain, then, there was just the arms around him, the warm body against his back, the comfort of a dick against his arse, hard or not, and he could pretend he wasn’t a broken man. Like he always had. He could almost pretend he wasn’t a pirate. Though calling them people… well that would be quite the stretch, wouldn’t it?

And yet… could monsters hurt so much, could monsters find comfort in each other? He felt it in Vane too. After a tense day, here they could relax, however strange that might be. The tension leaked from Vane like water from a ruined bucket, and Flint found himself more comfortable than he had been in – how long? He couldn’t remember. Vane’s arm was around him, his skin was scraping against him. Flint could almost imagine this was nice.


	2. Cut cut hack hack

Flint felt… soft. Comfortable. A bit too warm. He hadn’t felt this way since… Dear God, Vane was curled around him, _holding him_. Worse: Vane’s spine was as stiff as his dick, his arms were like vices. He lay completely, utterly still.

“Good morning,” Flint grumbled awkwardly. Vane grunted something, didn’t move a hair. Flint had a headache, and he did not want to deal with how his own dick started to show interest in the way Vane’s cockhead pressed against his arse. “Could you – uhm, let me go. Please?”

“Did you just say please?”

“Shut up. I’m going to kill you. Let me up.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to think about that,” Vane said. God, but his sleepy voice was like thick, dark chocolate dripping slowly from his tongue. It made Flint think of the drink Miranda always preferred for breakfast, in another life. He’d almost forgotten, but now he could taste it on his tongue, rich and dark and sweet yet bitter. He wondered if Vane tasted… Flint jerked up, needing to put some distance between them _now_ , but Vane held too tightly. “Oh. Sorry.” Vane untangled his arms, let them slide over Flint’s skin, taking away every desire to leave the bed. Flint turned, looked at – Vane. Dear God, he was in bed with Vane. How much had they drunk? Vane grimaced, chest dark red with embarrassment.

Flint stood up and the morning sun licked his scarred and callous skin. The flush moved up Vane’s face to his ears, and he muttered, gesturing awkwardly toward Flint’s crotch, “You’re… uh.” Flint looked down at his very hard self.

“You’re not much better,” Flint replied. Vane looked down on himself and flushed even brighter, and Flint thought it was… endearing, that a vicious pirate captain should be embarrassed of waking up hard. “Go back to sleep, it’s still early.”

Vane joined Flint right before midday. Flint wished he’d have waited at least a few more hours.

“I’m ready to pull my own eyes from my sockets Flint! We have to do something!” Of course. What had he expected? Charles Vane sitting idly with a book in his lap, or knitting, or cutting vegetables? Charles Vane wasn’t one to sit still.

“ _Fine_.” Flint brought him out back. “No hitting, no kicking, no biting. Just swords. Like gentlemen.” He found the dull blades, threw one at Vane and fell into position. Vane didn’t hesitate a second.

“So, you think you can beat me in a clean fight?” Vane smirked, lounged at him. Flint batted his blade away, danced to the side. Vane was all cut cut hack hack. No finesse, no elegance. Fighting to kill.

“I know I can beat you in any fight.” Cut cut hack hack – Flint met him at every turn, let the flow of the fight embrace him like a lost lover. He didn’t need to think to know where to turn, where to step, where to look, it was all so natural. He was calm, clean, just a blade – and everything was black and white, friend and enemy. There were no questions here, no right or wrong, just the dance.

He flicked his wrist and Vane’s blade flew from his hand. The man growled, picked his sword back up.

“Relax your grip, you hold your sword too tightly, it makes you too stiff in the movements and you break instead of bend.” Cut cut hack hack. Pirates weren’t good with blades, they were just expert butchers and cheaters. Vane didn’t appreciate the advice, he lunged at Flint again, fangs bared, growing angry. “Like gentlemen,” Flint murmured, but he knew that Vane heard him above his hard breathing. Flint was barely winded.

“And what do _you_ know about gentlemen?” Flint raised his eyebrows.

“In another life,” Flint whispered, “you might have died on my ship.” Although he… doubted that. He would never tell Vane, of course.

Cut cut hack hack, he danced away from Vane’s anger, put him on his arse on the ground, grinning. Vane kicked his legs from under him then, and Flint went down with a loud _ouf_! And then Vane was above him. Flint only had time to hit him square across the jaw, but it was surprise enough. He rolled them around, got Vane on his stomach and grabbed two fistfuls of hair, pulled his head up just as he sat on his arse.

“Fuck you,” Vane spat, twisted around, sat up – and dear God he was _strong_. Forced Flint to his back in turn and they ended up crotch against crotch, Vane between Flint’s thighs.

Flint didn’t know what possessed him, but he circled Vane’s slim hips with his legs and rolled his hips against him, grinding them together. A half-moan escaped Vane’s mouth and Flint grinned.

Flint saw the hit before it came, so he worked the little knife from his belt and blocked, successfully slicing Vane’s underarm, and making him draw away with a very pirate-like squeal.

“The fuck?!” he whined. “That’s cheating!”

“ _You_ kicked!”

“Flint I swear I’ll kill –” Vane stopped, grimaced, vent inside. Flint simply lay on the ground for a while, chuckling disbelievingly. Had Charles Vane just checked his temper? Unbelievable. Flint went inside, heard clattering from the kitchen.

“Vane,” he yelled, trying to sound gentle. And it was so ironic, wasn’t it? Being here, in her house, being more gentle with Charles Vane than he had been with Miranda most of the time. Until the very last, but those few days, when they were done fighting, when he’d given in to her persuasion, when he had finally given her what she deserved – a chance, a chance to finally be a part of something, and then _Peter Ashe_ -.

“What?” His voice was gruff, harsh, but his tone was… uncertain. And he was not Miranda, he did not deserve what Flint had been unable to give her, and yet. And yet.

“Come, sit down.” Flint fetched a bowl of water and the cleanest dirty rag he could find then sunk to his knees before Vane who was sprawled lewdly in the chair, dark expression on his face. “I’m sorry,” Flint said, wet and wrung the rag then brought it to Vane’s face, washed the dirt from his cheeks. “You’re trying to do this properly and I didn’t realise. We’ll do it properly. Husbands.” Vane smirked, held his bloody arm out.

“Man and wife.” Flint didn’t protest, there was nothing wrong with being a wife, so he washed the blood patiently from Vane’s arm where he’d made a shallow cut. It didn’t need to be wrapped, but he poured some rum over it and washed it again, just in case.

Flint made to stand, but Vane put a heavy hand on the back of his neck, holding him down, giving the slightest bit of pressure to bring him marginally closer. Flint’s eyes closed, and he thought of a different life, a different hand, and he thought – what if he just gave in? He was so tired, so very tired and Thomas’ smile was so kind and his hand so gentle, so achingly gentle in Flint’s dreams. But that gentleness didn’t belong to Flint, it belonged to a man long dead.

This, though, callused fingers brushing over his shorn head, running from the nape of his neck to the top of his forehead, slowly, fingers digging in, then back again – this feeling belonged to Flint, this moment Flint had stolen, like he always stole the things he didn’t deserve. Like a pirate.

Flint pressed his head to Vane’s thigh and he could almost believe that they deserved this. That they deserved rest.

Oh, but there is no rest for the wicked, is there?

Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps.

They were silent at dinner that evening. Vane looked awkward, bent far over his plate, although that might be because he still struggled to use his knife and fork, not unlike a monkey.

Later, Vane did his best to help with the washing up and wiped the table of his own initiative. Flint appreciated it. He liked Vane’s concentrated, half annoyed and half disbelieving expression, like he couldn’t understand why he’d put himself in this situation and why he kept trying.

“Thank you,” Flint muttered, let his hand rest a second on Vane’s hip going past him.

They sat together in the evening, drinking an old and dusty bottle of wine. From glasses. Like gentlemen.

“You’ve been with men before.” It was a statement. Flint huffed.

“Of course. Don’t tell me you haven’t, I won’t believe you.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant – you like men, like men like women, don’t you?” Flint stiffened at that, scowled, emptied his cup like a pirate. Thomas, wonderful Thomas so brave, so careful yet determined, putting a hand on his jaw, moving closer – too close, much too close – pulled love from his lips and McGraw had no chance of escape, did he? He never had, it could only ever go one way, with them.

“And if I do?” Flint grunted. “Look, I’m not doing this to take advantage of you.” Vane accepted that, didn’t say anything. He was a man of few words, not unlike Flint himself.

“If you could,” Vane started again after a while, curiosity in his eyes as Flint looked at him. He was so different now, when he wasn’t trying to kill anyone. Flint felt he saw his face for the first time, and it was beautiful. “Would you marry a man?”

Flint took a ring from his finger then, feeling overwhelmed at the magnitude of the question, something Vane could never understand. It was _the_ ring, and he brought it to his lips. “Yes,” he whispered to it. Yes, it would always be yes. How could it be anything else?

“How does that work?” Flint had to laugh.

“Loving a man is not so different from loving a woman.” They didn’t take off their underclothes that night, they weren’t drunk enough for that.

“And what do normal people do at night?” Vane asked, and it hit Flint that he might never have simply been held because it felt good. Flint decided to change that so he pulled at Vane’s hips, nudged himself closer. Vane resisted when Flint moved him to lie on his chest, but all it took was a bit of force to get Vane’s head above his heart. Flint let his hands explore, then. He tangled one in Vane’s long, salty hair, and let the other travel the expanse of his chest and side. Vane had scars too, vicious ones. No doubt some of them were gifts from Flint, but Flint found they looked natural on him, like a ship adorned with bullet holes and lashes and blood that would never quite wash away, they told a story of violence and of victory. After all, he was still standing. The number of scars was simply the sum of victories to his name and Flint thought they made him stronger, fiercer.

Vane’s heart settled and his breathing grew steadier as he lay on Flint’s chest, and Flint kept caressing him, wouldn’t dream of sleep – not yet. So he held Vane close, pressed his head against his own chest as if clinging to some ancient memory that simply would not let go for it had dug its claws in him and he was bleeding, always bleeding.

When he fell asleep it was gentle, and he dreamed of blue eyes and wine and books in front of a crackling fire.


	3. What is a home to a sailor anyway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Chickens were hurt!
> 
> Should I not say 'enjoy' in this case? Enjoy though O:)

Flint managed to leave the bed without waking Vane, and wondered again what universe he had fallen into where he would find that of any importance. But Vane had looked so tired, so comfortable and McGraw didn’t have the heart to –

He went outside, barefooted on the rough floor of his home. _His home_. But no, the _Walrus_ had been Flint’s only true home.

It was a nice morning. There was a shy breeze coming from the sea and brought the tang of salt with it, the sun was just rising behind the trees and Flint could look at the blue sky and think of blue eyes and be content. It was a strange feeling, one he was not accustomed to, but it crept up on him sometimes, even now, when watching a particularly beautiful sunset or taking the time to appreciate the star filled sky for more than setting a course that would never lead him home.

He read for a while there, sitting on the porch with his legs hanging off, swinging gently from time to time. The air felt fresh, more so than when at sea. It was dryer here, lighter and not laden with responsibility.

But he got restless. He often did that, after London. It had been long since he could sit for hours on end and simply read. So, he went and did something a gentleman would not. In hopes that Vane would appreciate it.

“Where did you get this?” Vane found him in the kitchen before noon. Flint had just been about to fetch him. At the question Flint turned away, trying to look innocent. “You stole it. Fucking pirate,” Vane muttered, though he sounded almost… amused, affectionate.

Vane helped him bring the food to the table and they ate eggs on bread that wasn’t stale, let the sweet taste of fruits linger on their tongue for as long as it would, drank coffee. Vane took Flint’s hand when they had eaten, the one resting gently on the table, and brought it to his face, looked at it as if it was something he’d never seen before, then gave it a lingering kiss and Flint would never admit that he felt a flutter in his belly, but he did.

Vane did the washing up, without complaint or scowls. It was good that Flint owed him a favour for that.

“Flint!” Vane yelled from outside later in the day. “Flint!” He stuck his head inside the door, looking almost panicked. “Help.” Flint sprung to his feet, half expecting the Spanish at his door. Vane brought him instead to the cellar, but kept the door decidedly shut. “Ready?” Vane asked, and he nodded gravely.

The room looked like a gang of Englishmen, then Pirates, then Spanish had run through it pillaging and murdering then fought each other for it in the aftermath. The room looked like Nassau. That was all he thought before an undecided number of claws were in his face. Before he knew what he was doing he was running, screaming, to the front of the house, Vane right at his heels.

“What the hell was that?!”

“ _Chickens_ ,” Vane growled. “Very angry chickens.” He bent in the knees, standing ready, bared his fangs. He looked feline, body long and smooth and strong.

Just then the chickens rounded the corner.

“Get them!” Flint yelled, and charged the mob unarmed. He’d severely underestimated the mob. Vane had thrown himself bodily on the group of chickens, sending them all beak-first in Flint’s face, had him sprawling on his arse on the ground in the next second so they could make a run for freedom. “They’re getting away!” Vane pounced, caught one by the tail-feathers and bashed its head against the ground while Flint wrung the neck of another with a sickening crunch.

“Oh no,” Vane muttered, looking at the last one, almost by the road. Flint growled. He would not let himself be outdone by a chicken! He assembled all his energy and sprinted toward the runaway. Just as he flung himself, the chicken took to its wings and almost – _almost_! – slipped his grasp, but he closed his fingers around it and slid across the dirt, landing on his back with the chicken clutched to his breast. The bird didn’t like that. Before he could think, the stupid creature pecked him in the face and tore him open with its claws.

Then Vane came up and bashed its head in with a large stone, splattering Flint’s face with blood and chicken brains.

“Not a word of this. To anyone.” Flint slumped on the ground, dead chicken clutched to his chest, and breathed slowly, trying desperately to calm the embarrassing pounding of his heart.

They had chicken for dinner that evening, after Vane washed the blood gently from Flint’s face and apologised for getting it there in the first place. Flint growled and scoffed, but Vane looked so sincere he couldn’t stay angry with him.

They watched the sunset together, sitting beside each other and overlooking a plantation that – luckily – had been out of business for some time. Flint slung his arm around Vane’s shoulder and brought him in. Vane let his hand rest on Flint’s thigh as the sky dripped with blood. There, if anywhere, was a place they could connect.

As the world darkened Vane’s fingers grew curious, and with every stroke he came that much closer to Flint’s crotch. Flint didn’t say anything, let him explore if he wanted. Out there in the open, beneath the starry sky and the never-judging moon, Vane felt Flint’s cock with the tips of his fingers, traced it through his trousers as if he’d never touched one in his life and Flint thought he might go mad with it, but didn’t say anything. So Vane’s hand grew bolder until he stroked Flint slowly with his palm and tried to cup his balls.

Flint pressed Vane’s head to his mouth with a sigh, didn’t quite kiss, just kept him there with his eyes pressed close, until he whispered a deep “stop,” into his ear, and they returned to the house.

Vane didn’t leave his underclothes on this time so neither did Flint, but he didn’t pull him close, simply admired the incredible cut of Vane’s hips in the scant light.

Vane stroked himself languidly beneath the sheet as he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Flint watched and it didn’t feel wrong, felt as if Vane was doing this for him. He watched until Vane fell asleep with his hand on his hard cock, and then he went to sleep too, reaching out to let his fingers caress Vane’s sun-kissed skin.


	4. Beneath the pirate there is pirate

When Flint woke that morning, Vane wasn’t there in the bed beside him. Cautiously, he got out of bed and slipped into his trousers to go hunting. He found Vane in the kitchen, cursing and making a mess. Flint had to smile. The man truly did make an effort, proved him wrong about his character like he had so many times before. Deep, deep down, he believed that Vane might just be a good person. Sometimes. In short moments, few and far between.

Flint went up to him and pressed his naked torso against Vane’s naked back and slipped his arms around his slim waist. Vane stilled, relaxed into his touch.

“I tried –”

“I know,” Flint said, and decided to throw out the burnt chicken remains when Vane wasn’t looking.

“I’m not meant for a life like this, Flint,” Vane muttered, his rumbling voice trying to sound soft in the gentle light of the morning. Flint let his nose trail along Vane’s hair line. His hair was stinking of salt and dirt and sweat. They would need to do something about that.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Neither am I. Not really. We’re meant to go out in a blaze of glory, you and I.”

Vane helped him heat the water and carry it bucket by bucket to the tub behind the house. It was slow work, but eventually they had enough warm water to stand it. Flint slipped in, not expecting Vane to drop his trousers right in front of his face, but that’s exactly what he did before climbing in on the other side, facing him. For all intents and purposes that tub was not supposed to room two grown men, but they made it work, Vane’s legs resting atop Flint’s as he leaned back and rested against the back of the tub with his arms on either side taking a superior position, like the pirate captain he was. Vane was not afraid of taking up room.

Flint set to wetting Vane’s skin and rub the soap into it, like a slave to his master. Flint took his time, though, worked methodically and taking pleasure in the act. Vane was so – Vane; serious expression with a hint of amusement shining through his eyes as he held himself above everything, or apart, and underneath it all was the ever-present and unmistakable violence. A tiger is still dangerous, even if it’s currently sleeping. That was Vane in this moment, letting himself be pet because he was enjoying it.

Flint worshipped him without shame; Vane was… Vane was edible, the swell of his muscles made Flint want to grab and scratch and lick and bite. There was a single drop of water sliding down Vane’s thick neck and Flint couldn’t take his eyes from it, could only think about licking it up, biting into the vulnerable skin there, suck a bruise and _mark_ him.

Flint took his time washing away the life of the pirate from Vane’s skin and he didn’t bother to hide his appreciation, didn’t pretend that his fingers had any reason for lingering, for caressing – he simply wanted to touch the perfection offered him. Vane, he thought, was like one of those chiselled marble statues, as excellent, as hard, as mind-breakingly handsome.

Vane let him, Vane pushed up until his entire torso was out of the water and Flint couldn’t help himself then; the sight of the water sloshing over his body, wet skin shining beneath the sun proved too much. He grabbed Vane, dug his thumbs hard into the sharp cut of Vane’s hips and _licked_ the muscles of his stomach. Vane groaned, twitched beneath his unforgiving fingers.

“Ahh – you’re not done yet,” Vane grind out and his voice was a deep, dark growl, a tiger’s warning. Flint growled right back but let him go.

He made Vane pull a leg from the water next and Flint made his way from toes to heel to calf and rested for a good while on the thigh, pressing his fingers to the meat on the inside of it. And he repeated the process with the other until all that was left was Vane’s crotch. Flint lathered his hands with soap and washed Vane’s crotch, even went so far as to wash his arse. Then he took Vane in his hand and stroked him slowly. Vane grunted, canted his hips, let his head fall against the edge of the tub as Flint teased and played with him.

He let go before Vane could come.

“It’s your turn; wash me.” So Vane did, as gently and thoroughly as Flint had him – didn’t even shy away from his cock or his arse. He washed Flint’s back too, traced the constellations there with his tongue as he dug his fingers into his skull. He must have noticed how much Flint enjoyed that.

After, Flint had Vane sit with his back to him, between his thighs, so he could wash his hair. Vane moaned unashamedly as he ran his hands though it and massaged the soap into his scalp, so Flint spent far more time on it than the task required. But when he was finished, he didn’t let Vane go just yet, even though the water had long gone cold. He pulled Vane in with an arm around his hips and pressed them flush together, slid his other hand toward Vane’s cock.

“May I?”

“Please,” Vane groaned, and Flint took him in hand again, moaned himself at the feeling, fisted his hand in Vane’s clean hair and pressed his lips to his ear. There was no teasing now, Flint wanted to show off his skills, to prove to him that it was not the first time he touched another man’s cock. He wanted to give pleasure.

Vane came undone in his hand, twisted in the firm grip which held him and fucked impatiently into Flint’s tight fist. He turned his head to look at Flint over his shoulder and he seemed lost to the feeling, delirious, eyes pools of pleasure. Flint’s own eyes flicked down to his lips, surrounded now by that handsome beard, longer than it used to be, and the air around them grew heavy until Flint’s head swam as if he was the one chasing his orgasm, and he thought perhaps – perhaps he could let himself, just this time –

Vane spasmed, his cock jerked in Flint’s hand and Vane moaned gutturally, right there, close enough for Flint to swallow, but not close enough. Flint swayed dangerously closer, felt captivated in a world of dreams and Vane’s lips were _right there_. Flint put their foreheads together and they stayed that way for three beats of frantic hearts, then he pulled away and Vane stepped from the water.

Flint moaned outright. Water trickled down Vane’s body in a myriad of rivers, running between his perfect arse-cheeks, begging Flint to lick it all up. It was a heady thought, Flint felt his face flushing even as he hardened.

“Like what you see?” Vane purred dangerously, then bent down to pick up a towel with his arse in the air and Flint had to fist the edge of the tub not to reach out and grab him, pull him close enough to taste. Flint ignored him, stepped from the tub himself and started to dry, though unable to look away from the other man.

There was nothing in Vane’s hair now, it simply hung loose around his face, teased his chest. Flint had never seen him so clean, but if he’d thought the pirate could be washed from him he was painfully mistaken. His body spoke of a life of hardship, his muscles so sinfully defined, large shoulders hunched threateningly, and he didn’t walk he prowled. Even naked, Charles Vane was a man to be feared.

It was hard to get Vane to wear anything at all after that. The only thing Flint could persuade him to wear was a small towel tied about his hips, riding indecently low. Flint enjoyed the view more than he thought he should have, and especially from behind; it was too easy imagining pushing up past the towel and slide in without resistance, fucking him with the thing still on. Dear lord, Flint wanted, but checked himself – always he was checking himself.

Flint brought a blanket and a bottle of rum to the porch instead and laid down reading a well-worn book while Vane put himself on display, sipping occasionally to the rum and humming the tunes of bawdy songs Flint knew by heart.

After a while Vane dozed off, lulled by the rocking of the rum and the heat of the sun. Flint took him in like he would never see him again, and perhaps he never would – not so exposed, not in so clear light.

His hand ran up Vane’s form and he moved closer until their heads were almost at a level and there he laid down on Vane’s outstretched arm and kept reading, kept drinking. It was something he had never done before; never had he touched so tenderly beneath an open sky, never had he been so careless.

Vane woke after a while and Flint realised that it was the first time since London that he’d read for so long and been so comfortable. Then Vane’s eyes blinked open, strikingly blue in the slowly fading daylight. He hadn’t noticed before how womanly his eyes were, how thick and dark his lashes, nor how beautifully they twinkled. Flint ached so terribly he had to look away.

He searched Vane’s face instead, knowing that he was being closely observed. Vane looked kinder, somehow, with the beard, softer. Flint longed to reach out and touch it, needing to know if it was as soft as it looked. Then he could hook his fingers around the curve of his jaw and tug gently, to bring him close and taste his lips. The prospect was so inviting; so long had he gone without a touch of that gentleness, so long had he been alone in a world of people thinking him above such things. But oh, he was starved for such things, and Vane was right there in front of him and somehow Flint knew he wouldn’t mind.

“Do you hear that?” Van whispered, searching Flint’s eyes, slight smile on his lips.

“What?”

“Silence. No one yelling for us, no one wanting us to solve their fucking problems.” Flint smiled, nodded. It was silent here, the kind of silence that settles in your bones and becomes a part of you until you too are silent, mindful of not disturbing the natural peace. He had no one to care for here, no one save himself.

That evening when all was said and done and they lay again in bed together, Vane reached out and stroked Flint’s cock, rolled onto his side beside him and put the palm of his other hand over his mouth.

Flint let Vane do with him as he please, lay only pliant on the bed as Vane pressed their bodies together urgently, started rocking his hips against the side of Flint’s arse all the while working him relentlessly, a bit violently for Flint’s liking but it was too good and too amusing because he’d been right; Vane didn’t even treat his own cock gently. But he had been gentle these days, Flint had seen it, had felt it, and felt it in the moment even, because Vane had moved his hand, caressed Flint’s head instead. How Flint had underestimated how good it would feel to have a gentle hand caress his shorn hair. For all that he enjoyed it when Thomas had yanked at it and made him hurt, there was something so achingly vulnerable about being treated this way, and it had been so long since he’d let himself be vulnerable.

He came with a moan muffled into Vane’s soft hair, stomach clenching almost painfully with the force of it and when it was over he was left boneless so that Vane had to clean the mess and gentle him onto his chest for Flint to fall asleep on.


	5. Snowdrop

Flint didn’t know how to sleep in anymore. Hadn’t allowed himself the luxury for so long. There was always something to do, always a reason to jerk from the bed like shocked every morning, always a reason to not linger and give room for his thoughts.

Now, though, this morning he felt _spent_ in more ways than one, like the energy had seeped out with his seed and every care he had in the world with it, and it was liberating.

It dawned on him that there was not a one reason for him to leave the comfort of the soft bed and warm embrace of a still deeply sleeping feline. It was a dangerous thought, one he could not let himself get used to and yet – didn’t he deserve this? But it didn’t matter if he deserved it or not, he was a pirate so he took it.

For the first time in ten years Flint snuggled closer to his bedpartner, slung a leg across his, brushed their bearded cheeks together, and went back to a comfortable slumber.

“You still here?” Vane grumbled hours later. There was not an inch between them, Flint had plastered himself to Vane in his sleep and even now he was reluctant to move. Vane was so warm, his skin so smooth, so comfortable. Flint had forgotten how delicious it was, that feel of skin against skin, of slow mornings and languid kisses for breakfast. The glide of Thomas’ tongue in his mouth, hot and maddening – how hungry he’d been for it; he’d never gotten enough, had always chased the taste of him. He’d been willing to sink into Thomas, to become part of him and lie there in that luxurious bed for ever even if the world burned to ashes about them, because he’d never known such sweetness was possible in this world.

He tipped his head up and looked at Vane. Just a few inches and their mouths would be of a level.

Flint shrugged. “I have nowhere better to be.” It was just a whisper against Vane’s lips, almost a kiss, but not quite. But he wanted – he _wanted_ Vane’s lips, he wanted his kiss whether it was biting or soft, whether it was wet or dry, whether it was real of just a pretty lie.

“Didn’t think you enjoyed laying idly in bed.”

“It’s what normal people do, sometimes,” Flint said, as if that was any explanation at all.

“And what do they do, then?” They kiss, Flint could have said, they hold each other like they matter, like they care for each other, like they wouldn’t trade anything in the world with the person they love. Flint forced himself to pull away, to sit with his back to Vane, legs over the side of the bed. He shrugged again, couldn’t think of anything to say.

Tentative fingertips brushed his skin, sharp nails ran down his back. It was an invitation. _Stay_. Flint didn’t move, could barely repress a shudder. Vane sat up behind him then, pressed his bearded cheek to his shoulder. Then he bit into it and let his fingers slide into the coarse hair at Flint’s crotch.

“I always wondered what colour this would be. Of course it’s fucking ginger.” It was almost blond now though, caressed by the bright sun shining through dirty windows.

Vane’s hand moved away, but his mouth traced Flint’s shoulder, teeth nipping his skin along the way until he reached his neck and closed his mouth around the soft muscle. Again his fingers scraped up his scull and Flint had to swallow a moan as Vane pulled his head back and licked the metal in his earlobe. Vane kissed along the line of his jaw, caressed his cheek with his nose. Flint leaned into the touch, didn’t turn his head, didn’t offer his mouth because he would never be able to let go. He would be giving more than a few inches, then.

Flint rose, pulled his shirt from the back of a chair. Vane’s hands grabbed his arse and squeezed, pulled Flint closer so he could kiss the small of his back and slide his hands around to his front and caress the inside of his thighs. Flint stood there, let Vane explore as he wished, and tried not to lose himself to the feeling.

“I’m hungry,” Vane muttered against his arse, making Flint turn in his arms with a grin and grab his own cock.

“Oh really?” Vane snapped his teeth inches from Flint’s cock and sent him running, then sprung from the bed and followed him through the house.

Vane reached him in the kitchen, didn’t hesitate to throw himself on him and bring them both down together naked on the stone floor. There was some struggle but in the end Flint was laughing too much to fight anymore, and ended up with his back on the floor, Vane sitting on top of him and pressing his hands to the ground with a feral smirk.

“Got you.”

“I thought you were hungry.” Vane proceeded to tickle him. To fucking tickle him. Flint hadn’t been tickled in ten years. He hadn’t felt such terror in ten years. _Now_ however, he writhed and gasped and laughed until he cried beneath Vane’s unrelenting fingers. “You!” he gasped when Vane finally let up. “I’m going to kill you!”

“We weren’t supposed to think about that! You’re a terrible wife,” Vane chuckled. Flint grumbled like an old man until Vane let him up, and then showed him how to make the chicken remains an edible meal.

It was an idle day, and with nothing better to do they left the house and walked around in the wild parts of the interior of the island, a place where none of them were well acquainted at all. Vane complained that it was boring, and Flint told him that that was how affectionate relationships worked, sometimes you needed to sacrifice to satisfy your partner. Flint knew enough about sacrifice, more than any man should be forced to.

“I don’t know what happened to you,” Vane muttered some time during the day, “but I am genuinely sorry.”

“And how do you know it wasn’t deserved?”

“It never is.”

That evening Vane put his head in Flint’s lap when he’d retired to the couch to continue his book.

“What are you reading?”

“You wouldn’t know it.”

“Read to me, then.” So Flint did, like he had so many times before in a different life – no, when he was younger. He held the book in one steady hand and used the other to trace intricate patterns on Vane’s beautiful face and comb his hair back. It was soft now, though a bit of a tangle. He idly thought that they’d need to do something about that.

Vane purred and leaned into every touch, chasing them desperately.

“If this is what love between men looks like,” he muttered, interrupting Flint’s steady reading, “then it is indeed very different from the love between man and woman.”

“You’re thinking about Eleanor.” Vane hummed. “That is not how love is supposed to be, with anyone.” They didn’t discuss it further, and at some point Vane fell asleep to the gentle lull of Flint’s deep voice.

Flint kept reading until there was no light left to read by, comforted by the heavy weight of Vane on him. Then he put the book aside, gentled himself from beneath Vane’s head and squatted down to pull the large man into his arms. Vane was heavy, but Flint carried heavier burdens with him always, only he bumped Vane’s foot against the doorframe upon entering the bedroom and it woke him.

Flint stilled on his way, stood in the middle of the room with Vane’s face inches from his and those hauntingly blue eyes just there.

“Wife,” Vane muttered sleepily, and the word was a ghost of breath across Flint’s face. There was the smallest smile on Vane’s lips, vulnerable and innocent like spring’s first snowdrop. Tired he must have been indeed, because Vane leaned toward Flint, eyes half-mast and the pink tip of a curious tongue licking his lips, as if he expected company for that lonely snowdrop. But it had grown prematurely, the frost came again, Flint drew in a sharp, startled breath and tore his eyes away from possibility.

“Sorry I woke you.” Vane was asleep again before Flint could suggest getting him out of his clothes, so Flint simply crawled in naked behind him and buried his face in his hair.


	6. Comb the hooks out of his hair and don't curse if he bites your fingers

Flint woke up to himself more or less dry humping the mattress, cock aching between his legs like it hadn’t in so long. He had to stifle a moan into the sheets and could only pray that Vane wasn’t up yet.

 _What had he been dreaming?_ He desperately needed to go back there and finish this.

He’d hardly finished the thought before Vane moaned softly beside him before stretching and pulling hard at his cock at the same time. Then he looked up and saw that Flint was staring, staring at that long, graceful body, knowing that if he stared long enough he would let himself be drowned by it.

He hadn’t even realised that his fist was working his cockhead before Vane’s eyes slipped from his face to – Flint felt an amount of embarrassment he hadn’t since London, since Miranda’s relentless teasing.

“Sorry,” he croaked, not wanting Vane to think he was watching him while… “I wasn’t actually –”

“Do you like sucking cock?” Flint’s breath caught in his throat, let him only nod. Vane pushed him down, then, stuffed his mouth with his cock and Flint drank him down eagerly. Only, Vane was used to a certain type of fucking, one Flint wasn’t particularly fond of, so he dug his fingers hard into Vane’s hips and showed him that the one fucking was not necessarily the one in control.

Flint pulled Vane apart beneath him, only with the use of his mouth. Vane found himself panting and shivering and unable to do a single thing as Flint took him, used him, swallowed him down over and over again to the rhythm of his own rutting hips. Vane writhed desperately on the edge of Flint’s tongue, moaned for it like the cheapest whore Nassau had to offer and Flint went half mad at the sound of that raspy, dark-as-chocolate voice begging him for more, his hunger only growing and growing until he was choking himself on Vane’s cock and Vane came deep in his throat with an almost pained roar.

Flint fucked the mattress until he came all over it and was left panting between Vane’s thighs like they’d just engaged in lethal battle.

“Why do men fight,” Vane mused, “when they could just fuck?” A question Flint had always asked himself. He hadn’t figured out an answer yet, except that most men were idiots, so he pulled himself to Vane’s level on the bed instead, wondering idly when the man had woken up to take his clothes off.

“We don’t have anything for breakfast,” Flint sighed apologetically against Vane’s throat. Vane smirked.

“You just had yours. Don’t think you’re getting more than that. Greed is a sin, or so I’ve heard.” Flint bit his nipple for that, pulling yet another very pirate-like squeal from Vane’s lips.

They went without breakfast; it was not like they weren’t used to it, not like normal people always had enough for breakfast. Vane didn’t even particularly enjoy eating breakfast – too many memories of heaving it back up again moments later.

But there was little else to keep them occupied. Flint could always read, and he did, left Vane by the table playing idly with his mean knife. Before, Flint might’ve killed the man for ruining his table, now he only scowled at him and left, let Vane feel his cold shoulder. Flint had always found it worse, her cold shoulder and her silent judgement, than her screaming and yelling. It was almost as bad as her tears.

Flint grew restless. The thought of Miranda enough to darken his mood even on the brightest days, but he suspected it was not that which had him crawling in his own skin that day. He hadn’t wanted to think about it, but the alluring thought of Vane’s lips, how he seemed to have offered himself in his almost sleeping state the night before, it had done things to Flint, things he hadn’t known for so very long. In his heart he had always enjoyed kissing, even before Thomas and the way he had altered McGraw’s vision of how kissing should really be done, he had always had that oral fixation, had always lingered too long on the lips of casual lovers.

That Vane brought out this aching desire in him now, in a home where he’d rarely felt it before despite the company, it was deeply disconcerting and he was beginning to look forward to the morrow and the end of this agony of denying himself the ruin that would surely come should he give in to the temptation and kiss Charles Vane on the mouth. Who knew what kind of man he would be after such an affair? Surely not the same as before, surely the thing would shake the very foundations of his world and this character he had built for himself brick by bloody brick.

“What’s wrong?” Flint startled out of his reverie. He hadn’t noticed the book slipping to the ground with a soft thud. Vane was standing in the doorway, looking tired and a bit uncertain of his footing. Awkward, perhaps, because of what had happened that morning, yet finding himself not completely careless of Flint’s wellbeing. Flint shook his head, schooled his expression. It wasn’t his fault if it came out a bit angry, that was how his face looked, after all.

“Nothing in particular.” Vane looked like he was about to press, and they could have nothing of that. “What do you care? We didn’t actually marry.” His voice was gruffer than he meant it to be, he had not wanted to treat Vane such when it was himself he was angry with. For being so soft. For still being McGraw, somewhere deep, deep inside. Somewhere he did not want to explore, but Vane had just opened that door, despite its rusty hinges, its locks, and its reluctance. And he didn’t even know, couldn’t ever know.

Vane’s brow creased, wondering what he’d done wrong and Flint got angry with himself for making him think that he did anything wrong at all. When Vane started retreating into the house, Flint stopped him. “Sit down,” he said softly, reaching out and apologising with everything but words, and gestured in front of his chair. Vane sunk down, a tad suspiciously, and Flint ran to the bedroom to fetch the necessary equipment.

Vane had curled in on himself, sat with his chin on his arms and his arms around his knees. He looked no more than a cat, now, not dangerous in the least and it stunned Flint and kept him in his spot.

“What?” Vane demanded, with that growling voice of his and there was no mistaking that it was him, and yet… There was a fond smile on Flint’s lips. Vane picked up the cigar that lay smoking on his right and pulled in deep.

Flint sat himself on the chair behind Vane’s sinfully broad back and pulled his hair from over his shoulders. “Nothing.” He carded his fingers through Vane’s long hair. It wasn’t particularly soft, not really; he could still pretend to remember what it felt like to do the same to Miranda in London, and her hair had been soft as the finest silk. In comparison Vane’s hair was coarse beneath his fingers, tangled and split and unkempt, but the small breathy sounds coming from Vane whenever Flint’s fingers caught in a tangle were so sweet he hadn’t thought for anything else.

Still, he found the brush and gently started detangling Vane’s dark locks from the end and up to avoid hurting him unnecessarily. It was slow work and Vane growled at him whenever he pulled too hard, but Flint couldn’t convince himself to care, only apologised in form of calloused fingertips brushing his shoulder and made him hum instead.

Flint couldn’t help himself when Vane’s hair was as soft as it would ever be; over and over he carded his fingers through it, pulled it away from Vane’s forehead, let his fingers scrape along his scull and pull a throaty groan from Vane’s lips.

He kissed the top of Vane’s head, lingering there to take in the musky, smoky smell of him, then started to braid his hair, beginning at the top of his brow, and working methodically over his head, pulling all that beautiful hair into a thick, neat braid. He’d almost thought he’d forgotten how to do that, but it sat in his fingers like the knots he learned as a boy.

Vane leaned into his hands, smoke puffing from his lips accompanied by a low, rumbling sound from the belly of the beast. When he was done Flint tied a leather strap around Vane’s hair to keep it in place and tickled the side of his face with it.

“Turn.” Vane turned around, looked expectantly at him, a little amused. The sight of him stilled Flint’s breath in his lungs, stopped his heart in his chest. Vane was _beautiful_ , sharp features even more so now that his hair was all pulled away from his face and his strong, thick neck. Flint held his face in his hands, felt his coarse beard scratching his palms, caressed his thumbs over Vane’s cheeks. Vane blinked up at him innocently, fixed him with those brutally blue eyes that had always made something ache in Flint. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful?” Flint asked.

“No,” Vane said in reply, his growling voice as soft as it could ever be.

“You are.”

“I didn’t think men could be beautiful.” Flint’s thumb brushed over Vane’s eyebrow, traced a path to his ear, returned and caressed the vulnerable spot right beside his eye.

“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” Flint whispered against his ear, eyes threatening to fall close of their own accord, his body betraying him, bringing him ever closer to Vane. But Vane leaned in to him too, rolled gently in with the tide and Flint’s thumb caught on Vane’s lower lip, his tongue went out to wet his own and his head was swimming as his gaze zeroed in on Vane’s small, pink mouth.

Birds chirped and the sound of domesticated animals rolled in from afar. The sun was beating down on them and it was as if Flint could feel every fibre of the chair he was sitting on, could feel every grain of sand beneath his naked feet on the porch. He could imagine the sound of the waves rolling in from the sea even here.

It didn’t matter, none of it mattered. Vane’s heavy hands on his thighs was everything. They were calloused, but touching gently, and Flint knew what force lay in them and it was heady to think of what Vane might do with them, should he wish.

Vane’s tongue went out and tentatively licked the tip of Flint’s thumb, invited Flint to dip deeper inside his mouth and there was nothing Flint could do to stop himself. Gently, he pressed in and down, opening Vane’s mouth as he leaned closer.

A horse and carriage ran past on the road and Flint flinched away as if struck, heart beating wildly in his chest.

The moment was broken. Flint escaped into the house and sat down on the bed, waiting for his heart to slow its frantic labour. His head was swimming, confusion and despair whirring in his brain and he knew not what to do with it. So he sat there. In silence, alone.

When they saw each other again they made as if nothing had happened, but Vane kept his hair braided and seemed unable to take his fingers from it.

Dinner was silent, and Flint retired early but was not yet asleep when Vane joined him in bed, although he lay with his back to him and could not make himself turn or say anything. He was slow in falling asleep, thinking too much and too hard about opportunities wasted.


	7. Acts of greatness

When Flint woke, feeling stiff and uncomfortable, Vane was propped on his elbow looking curiously down at him. His braid was still in place, if a bit messy from sleep. Flint let his head fall back on the pillow, closed his eyes, sighed.

“What?” Vane asked. I want to kiss you, Flint could have said, but didn’t. “Something’s troubling you.” Flint nodded. A lot of things were troubling him, he could speak of them all day and it would achieve nothing.

“They’re moving Rackham today. We can’t lose them.”

“It’ll be fine,” Vane assured him, sounding slightly annoyed at Flint’s worry, at his lack of belief that they were far superior to the governor’s men. Vane’s biggest problem was that he thought himself invincible. Or perhaps he just wasn’t afraid to die. And anyway Flint saying that would be the kettle calling the pot black. “You need to think of something else.” Vane rolled on top of him, grinning dangerously. Flint wanted to shove him away but couldn’t.

“And how do you intend to achieve that?”

“I want you to fuck me.” That – that… Flint’s brain stopped working. He’d never thought he’d hear those words from Charles Vane’s mouth, but he uttered them now with a smirk on his face.

“You _what_?” Flint keened, voice embarrassingly high.

“I want you,” Vane said, biting seductively at his ear, “to fuck me. I’ve never been fucked before, might be my only chance.” Flint groaned into his shoulder, felt himself grow hot and hard at the thought of it. “There,” Vane laughed, “I knew you’d like the idea.” Vane slithered down his body and took Flint’s cock in his mouth, grimacing and spluttering around it.

“Stop that.” Flint rolled them around and pressed Vane against the mattress while his free hand went to the table beside the bed and pulled forth an old vial of oil hiding in a drawer. “Can I do with you as I want?” Flint asked breathlessly, brain whirring with ideas of what he could do, things he hadn’t thought to do to another person in so long. “Until you stop me?”

“If you stop when I say so.” Flint nodded frantically before finding his way between Vane’s thighs. Half delirious, fingers trembling, Flint pushed Vane’s thighs open and set his mouth to them one by one. Oh, but he didn’t have the patience for that. Gently he traced his thumb between Vane’s buttocks and followed the movement with the slick slide of his tongue making Vane gasp in surprise and pleasure. The legs around Flint’s ears gave a shudder and Flint couldn’t hold himself back. He pulled Vane’s cheeks apart and pushed his face between them, scraping his arse with his beard and slotted his mouth over Vane’s hole. Vane groaned, jerked closer and Flint pushed his tongue against him, probing his arse insistently trying to enter him despite the resistance.

Vane began shaking, grabbed Flint’s head and pushed him harder against himself and Flint could only obey, probed harder with his tongue, dipped his slick thumb inside him and pulled a guttural moan deep from within him. Flint moaned into him at the sound of it and slicked his others fingers up with oil. Vane didn’t need to be treated gently so Flint pushed in with two fingers as he pulled Vane’s cock into his mouth to distract him from the jolt of pain.

“ _Fuck yes_ ,” Vane growled and tried to fuck himself on Flint’s fingers. “Fuck, oh fuck!” Flint had pressed in another finger and pushed his thumb to that painful spot behind Vane’s balls hard. Flint curled his fingers inside Vane and spread them vide to stretch him open for his cock. “Fuck me. _Now!_ ” Flint didn’t care that it might be too soon, Vane could take it.

He slicked up his cock and aligned himself with Vane’s hole, curled his wet hand around Vane’s cock. Then he pressed in against him, mind going white at the sensation, the resistance and then the give of Vane’s body as his head popped in. Vane growled dangerously and gripped his shoulders with bruising force.

Ever so slowly Flint sunk into the heat of Vane’s body, feeling overwhelmed as it enveloped him and pulled him in. When he was inside as far as he would go he laid down on Vane and pressed his face into his shoulder to listen to his heavy panting. When it slowed marginally Flint started rocking his hips is a slow rhythm and slotted his mouth against Vane’s neck, sucked hard on it, let his tongue explore it, all so his mouth wouldn’t stray to where he really wanted to put it.

He fucked Vane slow but hard and Vane’s fingers drew blood from his back. Flint went mad with it, mad with desire, mad with pain, mad with pleasure and disbelief that he was fucking Charles Vane of all people, clinging to him as if he was the last piece of debris left by the storm.

Vane anchored him, in this moment, and he felt as if he didn’t have a doubt in the world. He knew what was expected of him, what needed to be done, and he knew how to go about it.

Flint fisted Vane’s cock loosely in his hand, pulled away from his neck to find a large, purple bruise adorning it.

“Don’t look so fucking pleased with yourself,” Vane tried to growl, but his words came out breathless and needy.

“I have every reason to be pleased with myself.” Flint snapped his hips harder and Vane gasped, growling in pretended anger at Flint’s smirk.

Then Flint lost himself to the feeling and let go his mind. Faster he rocked into Vane beneath him, going ever harder – chasing, chasing that pleasure that was just there brushing the tips of his outstretched fingers and then he could feel it travelling in his veins like fire, burning him up, consuming him as he pressed deep, deep and came to the sound of Vane’s keening and his own moans and the slap of their bodies meeting in perfect symphony.

It was slow, coming down from the collective high. Vane clung to him as if he might slip away from this world if he were to let go. Flint hadn’t felt so wonderfully needed in he knew not how long, and he petted Vane’s head, pressed soft kisses into his hair, caressed his trembling body with disbelieving fingertips.

Vane didn’t seem to be embarrassed by his actions when they detangled and washed with a damp cloth before dressing in their blacks. There was little for breakfast but Flint insisted that Vane have half – they had a dangerous day before them and they would need their strength.

After that they had little to do but wait for Anne Bonny to come and fetch them. They stayed inside and Flint, in lack of anything better to do, swiped the floor and cleaned whatever messes they had made during their stay. Not that there was any need to make an abandoned home fit for living but he did it for what was, and for what would now never be.

When he at last had no more to do but settle in the chair facing Vane’s, he did so with growing discomfort, not wanting to face his judgement. But Vane looked kind beneath the smug expression on his face.

“So, darling,” he growled in that deep, smoky voice, and for some reason past his understand every ounce of discomfort left Flint at that.

“I’m not the one who got fucked,” he grinned, and it felt feral. Vane met him at every turn.

“I’m not the one who whined like a girl when I came.”

“Careful, or I might leave you out there today,” Flint threatened dangerously.

“Afraid I might talk to your crew are you?” Flint grinned. “But there is one thing,” Vane said, more serious now, face darkening with the heavy burden of responsibility. He slid from his seat and crawled toward Flint, “that we have yet to discuss.” Flint didn’t let himself consider what that might mean, knowing it would only make him pull away like a coward.

“Really?” Vane came to a stop before his knees and sat up between them, put heavy hands on Flint’s thighs to bring himself closer to Flint’s face.

“Yes.” Then Vane reached up and kissed him, and that was all. He simply kissed him, as if it did not turn Flint’s world on its axis, as if _kissing_ could be easy. And dear lord it was easy. Flint had forgotten how easy it could be, how simple, how sweet, how there needn’t be a heavy burden or a burning love to make it count.

Flint was smiling, smiling and beside all thought, simply existing in the gentle press of Vane’s chapped and dry lips. It was closemouthed, it was awkward and none knew exactly where they had the other, who they were to each other now, but it was the best Flint had felt since the last time he felt anything at all save pain and hate.

“For whatever it’s worth,” Vane mumbled against his lips, “in another life, if I hadn’t known what I know, if I hadn’t seen what I have seen, I might want it too, a life like this, _comfort_. If I had ever known anything but _this_ perhaps it would be tempting. But I am glad that I don’t have that instinct.”

“I know,” Flint rumbled in reply, because he did, he understood Vane. But the thought of Thomas, of what they might have had together… But the world wasn’t like that, and Flint wondered if it would have been worth it, living in ignorance and be happy instead of knowing the truth and burn up from the inside from the rage invoked at the injustices of the world. Someone needed to fight for what was right.

Not wanting to think of sacrifice, not now, Flint pressed back to Vane’s lips and captured them between his own. Vane opened up for him invited him in to share in something that held no promises, no expectations for tomorrow.

Flint dipped his tongue inside and tasted Vane, engaged in battle with him and yet it was gentle, more gentle than he had thought either of them capable of.

When he at last surfaced, Flint thanked him, gently, as he held Vane’s face between his old and scarred hands, and Vane leaned into the touch and thanked him in turn.

It wasn’t long before Anne Bonny fetched them after that, and with a last, meaningful look, James Flint and Charles Vane left to perform their last act of greatness and horror together.

The next Flint heard of Vane after that was how he’d sacrificed himself to light the rebellion in Nassau, how he’d offered himself for the cause. Charles Vane was dead. Charles Vane had died an honourable death such as he was deserving of, and Flint was proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Sorry that this was a bit late but work suddenly got very busy!
> 
> Writing this was so much fun even though I'm not really shipping Flane at all and I hope it was as fun for you to read - please tell me what you think! :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Ferdinand out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Tell me what you think, leave kudos if you like it :)
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](https://northwisesun.tumblr.com/) !


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